The Hunger Games: Revised
by CheerLoveDance
Summary: First in the Revised trilogy. Katniss Everdeen volunteers for Prim at the reaping. But wasn't it a bit unrealistic for Gale to let Peeta go in the arena with her? In this version, Gale makes a spur of the moment decision and volunteers for Peeta. With no guarantee that either of them will make it home, Katniss and Gale are up against fate and extreme odds. It's kill or be killed.
1. Chapter 1

THE HUNGER GAMES: REVISED

 **Disclaimer: All excerpts from the original The Hunger Games novel are not mine by any means.**

 **A/N: I don't believe in author's notes at the beginning of chapters, but I did want to let you guys know that although there will be some parallels to the book in this chapter, things are changed quite a bit. The plot will begin changing more as the story goes on.**

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PART I: THE TRIBUTES

CHAPTER 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see her. My mother, laying on her side, a shallow indentation in the foam mattress by her chest where Prim must have been sleeping. But she's not there.

In the corner of the room, my eyes find Prim. She's shaking, her arms wrapped around her knees. I slide out of bed and creep over to her, careful to make my footsteps light so as not to wake our mother. It's useless trouble, though. She's a heavy sleeper.

"What's the matter, Prim?" I whisper to my little sister.

Her wide blue eyes are frightened. "I'm scared."

"Nightmare?" I ask. She nods, and I envelope her in my arms. She rests her chin on my arm. "I get them, too, you know. But they're not real."

"They feel real," she whimpers.

"I know. But they're not. Today's just like any other day, right?"

I see her lip quiver, know she's about to cry.

"Hey. Hey," I say gently. I tilt her chin up so her eyes are level with mine. "What's wrong?"

Prim's eyes shine with fresh tears. "They picked me."

"Oh . . . Prim," I murmur. I lift her to her feet and pull her head against my chest. "It's your first year, Prim. Your name's only been in there once."

"So?" she asks, hiccuping between sobs.

"So, they're not going to pick you," I reply. I kiss the top of her head, then take her hand in mine and lead her back to the bed we share. I help her lie down. Once she's settled, I pull the old, blue sheet up to her chin and give her another kiss, this time on her forehead.

"Try and get some sleep. Okay?"

"I can't," she says.

"Just try," I say, and smooth back her hair away from her face. She closes her eyes and smiles a little. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."

"Are you going to see Gale?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'll be back in time to get ready."

With that said, I head to the kitchen. Slinking around by the back door is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of the vermin and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

But as it stands, I have nothing to feed him now. And so the single hiss is directed at me, and I'm forced to take it without much complaint. Prim's probably not asleep yet; she'd hear if I did anything to her beloved pet. So I say "I'll still cook you" and leave without giving him another glance - but not eyeing the perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves that's sitting on our table. I pick it up. Prim's gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket and slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust from under their broken fingernails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wife loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods - packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears - that used to threaten our streets. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it's silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out if District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meet as anybody is. In fact, they're among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples from the trees, but always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.

"District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance around quickly over both of my shoulders. Even in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, in the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble, so I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts. I learned to do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, the black market where I make the majority if my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Gale.

I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pulse quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rocky ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hey, Catnip," says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it, so he thought I'd said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company, but I at least got a satisfactory price for his pelt.

"Look what I shot," says Gale. He holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it.

"Look at you," I say, smiling. "You caught us breakfast."

It's real bakery bread, not the flat, sense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it.

"It better be. Cost me a squirrel," says Gale. "I think the old guy was feeling sentimental this morning. He even wished me luck."

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I say. I don't even bother to roll my eyes. Suddenly, I remember something. I pull the slab of cheese from my pocket and hold it out to Gale. "Prim left us a cheese."

His expression brightens at the bread. "Thank you, Prim. We'll have a real feast. Oh, I almost forgot!" He falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the reaping. "Happy Hunger Games!"

He plucks two blackberries from the bushes around us. He pops one in his mouth and tosses the other one in a high arc toward me. I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I say with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair and olive skin. We even have the same gray eyes. We're not related, though. Not closely, at least. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way.

That's why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place here. They are. My mother's parents were part of the small merchant class that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the nicer part of town. Since almost no one can afford doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to know my mother because on his hunts he would sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really loved him to leave her home for this dumpy lifestyle in the Seam. I try to remember this when all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father's sak, but to be honest, I'm not the forgiving type.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight's supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out at the reaping.

"We could do it, you know," Gale speaks up suddenly, quietly. I look at him questioningly. He's looking off into the valley beyond us, fingering at a strand of grass he picked. "Take off, live in the woods. It's what we do anyway."

"They'd catch us," I say, not allowing myself so much as a moment of indulgence in his fantasy. Such things could never happen.

"Maybe not," he says.

I scoff at the idea. "Gale, be realistic. We wouldn't make it five miles."

"Oh, I'd get five miles." He grins and nods to the mountains that lay past the valley ahead of us. "I'd go that way."

I laugh. "Not with your brothers, you wouldn't. And Posy. And Prim."

We fall silent as I begin to wonder what it would be like if we really could run away. As things are, the sheer notion of running away from the district is punishable. It goes unsaid that if you're caught running, you'll be killed on site. No, Gale and I couldn't risk that. And dragging our families along with us would be out of the question.

"I'm never having kids," I blurt out suddenly.

"I might. If I didn't live here," says Gale.

"But you do live here," I say.

"I know, but if I didn't."

"What's the point of talking about it, anyway?" I say, irritated. "I mean, it's not like we're actually going to run away."

Gale faces me, his expression suddenly serious. "We could, though. I meant what I said, Katniss. If you want to run . . . we can run."

I shake my head quickly and turn away from him. "No," I say. The reaping's today. If Gale and I ran, who would be there to comfort Prim? Since it's her first year, she'll no doubt be terrified. And anyway, how could I leave her? Prim, the one person in the world I'm certain I love. Not to mention that Gale, too, is devoted to his family. We can't leave, so why bother talking about it?

And where did all this stuff about having kids come from? There's never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny preteen - twelve years old, to be exact - and he already looked like a man despite him being only two years older than me. It took a long time for us to even become friends. In order for that to happen, we had to quit arguing over every trade and start helping each other out. And eventually we did.

And besides, if Gale he wants kids, he won't have any trouble finding a wife. He's good-looking, he's strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. All the other girls want him. I can see it in the way they whisper about him when he walks by in school. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

"What do you want to do?" I ask, snapping out of my thoughts. We can hunt, fish, or gather. There's a plethora of things to do once you escape the confines of the district.

"How about we fish at the lake? We can leave our poles and gather in the woods," Gale suggests, then throws on a cheeky grin. "Get us something nice for supper tonight."

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We end up doing well this morning. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey is available to them. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens, and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I was the one to find the patch of fruit several years ago, but the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out animals was Gale's.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, which is the black market that operates in an abandoned coal warehouse. When they came up with a more efficient system that transported coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market's still fairly busy. Gale and I trade six fish for some bread - it's not from the bakery, but it's still good - and the other two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot soup in her own stall, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple chunks of paraffin. We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She's the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don't hunt them on purpose, but if you're attacked and you take out a dog or two in self defense, well, meat is meat. "Once it's in the soup, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would turn down a good leg of wild dog. However, the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

After our business at the market, we head to the mayor's house to sell the strawberries we picked, knowing he has a particular fondness for them. And he doesn't try to bargain with us, he accepts our price - an added bonus.

We climb the steps to the back door and Gale knocks twice. The door swings open to reveal Madge, the mayor's daughter. She's in my year at school. Being the child of someone of high authority, you'd expect her to be a snob, but she's alright. She just keeps to herself, same as me. Since neither of us really have a group of friends, we end up together a lot at school. Sharing a table in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today, Madge's dull, colorless school outfit has been exchange for an expensive white dress. Her blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail with a pink ribbon. She's all done-up for the reaping.

"Pretty dress," Gale comments, looking her up and down.

Madge throws him a calculating look, probably trying to figure out if it's a genuine compliment or if he's just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, I'll admit. But she wouldn't be seen wearing it on any ordinary day. She presses her lips together and smiles. "Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"

Now it's Gale's turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is she messing with him? My bet is on the latter.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," says Gale. For a split second, a flash of envy crosses him. I know exactly what he's thinking. That it's all so unfair, so horribly unfair, that the children born into money never have to worry about being reaped, whereas the children who were unlucky enough to be born into a Seam family are almost always picked. His eyes land on a small, circular pin attached to the corner of Madge's dress. It seems to be made of real gold and is of magnificent craftsmanship. If someone were to sell that pin, it'd keep them fed for at least a month. Probably more. "What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was twelve years old."

"You make it sound like that's her fault," I say, subtly trying to talk some sense into Gale before he severs a working relationship. There probably aren't many people in District 12 who will pay as well as the mayor for half a gallon of strawberries.

"No, it's no one's fault," Gale says. "It's just the way it is."

The atmosphere has become tense with Gale's observation. Madge seems emotionless as she reaches in her pocket to count out some money. She places the cash in my hand and smiles coolly. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You, too," I say. Then the door closes between us.

Gale and I are silent during our walk back to the Seam. I'm still not happy that Gale took a dig at Madge. Off the top of my head, I can list probably ten other kids who could use a good lecture about common decency to the less fortunate. Madge is not one of them. But Gale was right, of course. The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered one. At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen. That's the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the drawing seven times. That's the case for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.

But there's a catch. Say you are poor and starving as we were. You can opt to enter your name more times in exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year's supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each member of your family (say you're like me and live with yourself and two family members, then you can take three tessera and your name will be entered three times, plus the amount of times it's already entered in accordance with age). So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three times for tesserae and grain and oil for myself, Prim, and my mother. Every year it has been necessary for me to do this. And did I mention that the entries are cumulative? So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will be in the reaping ball twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a family of five for seven years, will have his name in the pool forty-two times.

So, you can see why someone like Madge, who has never been at risk of needing tessera or being chosen for the Hunger Games, would set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is slim to none compared to us Seam kids. It's not impossible by any means, but highly unlikely. We both know that the rules were set by the Capitol and not Madge's family, but it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tessera in order to survive.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. He feels sorry now as we walk the uneven gravel path back home. On other days, when we're both deep in the woods beyond hearing range of the people in the district, I've listened to him go on about how the whole tesserae system is just another tool to create a feeling of injustice in the districts. It's a way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure that we will never, ever trust one another. "Having us divided this way is to the Capitol's advantage," he might spout off if we were alone. If it wasn't reaping day. If a girl our age, adorned with a gold pin and no tesserae, had not made what I'm sure she thought was a harmless comment. Lesson learned, you've got to watch your tongue around Gale.

As we walk, I glance over at Gale's face, still smoldering under his stony expression. His rages seem pointless to me, although I would never say so. It's not that I don't agree with him, because I do. But what good is yelling about the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn't change things. It doesn't make things fair. It doesn't fill our rumbling stomachs. In fact, it does more damage than good. It scares off nearby game, and if anyone was ever in the woods following us, we'd surely be in huge trouble. But I let him yell, anyway. Better he does it in the woods than in the district.

When we reach the branch in the road that separates my part of the Seam from his, we wordlessly begin dividing our goods. We each get two fish, two loaves of bread, a handful of greens, a quart of strawberries, some salt, some leftover paraffin, and a bit of spending money.

"So, I'll see you in the square?" I mean to say it as a departing statement, but it comes out like question.

He nods in answer to my unintentional question. He stares at me for a few seconds, then looks away. "Wear something pretty," he mutters, unemphatic.

Upon stepping through the front door of my family's house, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. Prim is wearing a hand-me-down, my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled blouse. It's a bit big on her, but my mother has secured it to the best of her ability with a few safety pins. Even so, the blouse keeps coming untucked in the back.

My mother has filled the tub with warm water for me. I sink into it, relaxing for the first time since Gale's tiff with Madge. I scrub myself clean and wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. It's a soft blue thing with short sleeves and a knee-length hem to keep my arms and legs cool in the early summer heat.

"Are you sure?" I ask her when I see it draped over the side of my bed. I truly am making an effort to get past my habit of rejecting offers of help from her. For a long time, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. But this is something special, and I know this. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

"Of course I am," she says, a small smile turning up just the corners of her mouth. "After you dry it, why don't you let me braid your hair, too?"

"Okay," I say. Once my hair has been towel-dried in the bathroom, I let my mother braid it around the back of my head - an intricate creation that only someone like my mother could achieve, with her careful fingers and eye for detail. She leads me to the cracked full-length mirror propped up against the wall in the bedroom. I can hardly recognize myself.

"You look beautiful," says Prim in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. My eyes meet hers in the reflection on the mirror.

"I wish I looked like you," she says.

I turn and walk to her, my arms held open for her. "Oh, I wish I looked like you," I say with a forced smile. I can only hope that she doesn't notice that small fact. I crouch down in front of her and embrace her. As I pull away, I notice the back of her blouse has come untucked once again. I reach behind her and tuck it in, still maintaining my smile. "You better tuck in your tail, little duck."

Prim giggles. "Quack."

"Quack, yourself," I giggle back. My hand zooms in to pinch her side, where she's most ticklish. She leans away from my touch and steps backwards, laughing now.

I have to be here for her today, because these next few hours will be terrible for her. It's her first reaping. She's about as safe as you can get, being entered in the pool only once. She asked to take out tesserae to help us out, but I refused. I know she's worried about me, that the unthinkable might happen, but I can't sit back and watch as she takes the same risks. I try to protect Prim in every way I can. But in a battle between myself and the reaping, I'm at a loss. I'm completely powerless against it.

Before we leave for the town square, we set a stew made of the fish and greens that Gale and I caught and gathered on the stove so that it's done cooking by the time the reaping is over. By then it'll be five o'clock and we'll be ready to eat supper. We leave the strawberries and bakery bread alone, planning to make this evening's meal extra special with these treats.

In every district, attendance at the reaping is mandatory. There is a slight exception for those who are ailing, but the person must be on death's door in order to be excused. This evening, our district's Peacekeepers will come around to the homes of each missing person and check if this is the case. If a person is absent and the Peacekeepers deem his or her explanation unfeasible, he or she will be imprisoned.

I find it upsetting that they insist on holding the reaping in the one place in out district that is somewhat pleasant. Surrounded by shops and sometimes carrying a holiday feel, our town square is the only spot in District 12 which holds some semblance of beauty. But today, as it is every year on reaping day, it is overcrowded and uninviting. I'll give them credit, they do try to brighten the place up on this annual assembly with brightly-colored banners and Effie Trinket's bright ensemble which changes in color each year. But the camera crews perched in the corner of each rooftop watching us like hawks and the occasion itself makes everything unbearably unpleasant.

Hoards of people file through the streets and sign in at one of the five tables set around the square for incoming people. I say there are hoards of people, but this is somewhat of a stretch. Of all the districts in Panem, ours is probably the smallest. Our population is extremely low due to starvation and mine accidents, both of which lead to death. And the fact that most people can't afford a doctor when they're sick doesn't help much, either. Anyway, the Capitol uses the reaping as a census, too.

Children from the ages of twelve to eighteen are ushered into roped-off areas separated by age and gender. Boys are on one side of the square, girls are on the other, and within that, the oldest ones stand at the front and the youngest at the back. Family members hold tight to each other, holding hands, clutching arms. I spot a few girls in my year giving melodramatic kisses to their boyfriends. Most of them merchants' kids. Of course. Those of us in the Seam wouldn't be foolish enough to be in a romantic relationship before graduating from school. Not with the ever-present fear of the reaping lingering in the backs of our minds. Besides these, there are those who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care. They slip in and out of the crowd, chatting with others like them, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn. Odds are weighted on their ages, whether they're Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be gossips, tattlers, and who in District 12 hasn't broken the law before? I could technically be shot on a daily basis for hunting, and a less severe punishment would be issued for going past the fence and into the woods, but the appetites of those in charge protect me. I suppose not everyone can claim the same. This is another reason why our population is lower than most. Anyway, Gale and I have talked about it before and we both agree that if we had a choice between death by starvation and death by a bullet through the head, the bullet would be much quicker.

The relatively large square shrinks in size as more people arrive. There's not enough room here to hold the entirety of District 12, so the ones who arrive late are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteen-year-olds, all from the Seam. We give each other little more acknowledgement than polite nods before switching our attention to the temporary stage that's set up in front of the Justice Building. On the stage, there are three chairs, a podium, and two big glass balls. One of the balls holds the boys' names and the other holds the girls' names. I stare at the paper slips in the girls' ball. Twenty of them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful handwriting.

Madge's father, Mayor Undersee, fills one of the chairs on the stage. He's a tall, balding man, but besides those two small details, it's clear that Madge gets a good bit of her features from him. Madge isn't tall, but she isn't short by any means. She's in good shape, having had enough to eat all her life. Here in District 12, being of an average weight like Madge or even being slightly overweight like a girl I know from school, Delly Cartwright, is cause for the most intense jealousy from those who aren't as lucky. Mayor Undersee's strange, undefined face shape has been passed down to his daughter, as well. I would describe it as heart-shaped, but it's not exactly. Madge's more distinct features, such as her blonde hair, aqua-green eyes, and rounded nose come from her mother, whom I rarely see. I hear she gets sick a lot.

Beside Mayor Undersee is Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and fuchsia skirt suit. They murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat to Effie's left.

Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium just as the town clock strikes two. He begins to read about our country from a stack of notecards in his hands, although I doubt he really needs them. It's the same thing every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve districts were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. As punishment for the uprising from the Dark Days, each of the twelve remaining districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, as participants. This makes twenty-four total tributes. They will be stuck in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the tributes must fight to the death. The last man standing is the winner.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch - this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you, just as we did in District Thirteen."

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The winning tribute, known as a victor, receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with rewards, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will present the victorious district with gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the remaining districts battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In seventy-four years, we have only had two, and only one is still living. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy man in his mid-forties with dirty blonde shoulder-length hair that covers half of his face when he looks down. At this moment he appears hollering something unintelligible. He staggers onto the stage and falls into the third chair. He's drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he's confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks anxious, probably thinking of how District 12 is currently the laughingstock of Panem - since this is all being televised, everyone in the country just saw Haymitch's spectacle. Mayor Undersee tries to switch everyone's focus back to the reaping. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . Effie Trinket, District Twelve escort."

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the podium and give her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

From across the crowd, I spot Gale looking at me with a ghost of smile. As far as reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor, not at all. Not compared to a lot of the boys. A look of confusion twists his features. "You okay?" he mouths to me.

I nod and force a reassuring smile onto my face, but at that moment, he seems to realize the same thing I just did. His face darkens suddenly an he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him. But he's too far away to hear me. And besides, what good would it do for me to promise him we'll both be okay when really, no one has that reassurance. No one can definitely say that they won't get chosen.

Now it's time for the drawing.

"As usual, ladies first!" Effie Trinket says as she crosses to the girls' glass ball. She reaches in, digs her hand deep inside the ball, and fishes around for a moment to increase the drama and anticipation in the crowd. Everyone seems to draw in a collective breath and all falls silent as Effie pulls out one single slip. She takes her time unfolding it and the whole time I'm thinking of how I feel sick to my stomach and I so desperately hope that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium and flattens out the slip of paper against the podium's smooth wooden surface. She clears her throat lightly before reading the name out in a clear voice that rings across the square. That's how I know for sure that I didn't mishear it. No, it's not me.

It's Primrose Everdeen.

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 **A/N: Hi, guys! Thank you so much for checking out the first chapter of The Hunger Games: Revised. I'm really hoping that this story will do Suzanne Collins's original story justice, which is why I used some of her best lines from the original book in this chapter. I promise that it won't be like this forever. The story picks up next chapter and I begin to shed some light on my own version of the story.**

 **If you like my writing in this story, be sure to check out one of my other THG fics, Squad 451. It follows Katniss and her life after Mockingjay, and focuses mainly on what would happen if Gale came back to District 12 (which I truly believe he would've eventually if Suzanne Collins had continued the series). It's Galeniss, but there's a TON of Everlark in there throughout the majority of the story so whether you like Gale or Peeta, you'll be happy!**

 **Please make sure you favorite/follow this story if you plan on coming back so you won't miss a single update! Or, if you want to follow me as an author, you can do that, too. Also PLEASE don't forget to review this chapter with your thoughts and ideas for the rest of this story. I can't wait to get to know you guys better and to share my ideas with you :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own any excerpts from the book, characters, etc.**

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CHAPTER 2

One time, when I was blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around inside my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen were so remote that I hadn't even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.

A million miles away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks it's fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her fair-skinned face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked again and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, this teeny, insignificant detail about the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

"Prim!" The strangled cry brings life back to my limbs and I find them moving again. "Prim!" The crowd makes a path for me without me having to shove my way past them. Two Peacekeepers materialize from the crowd and try to grab my arms, to hold me back, but I won't let them. They can't take me away from my sister. "Wait, no! I volunteer! I volunteer!"

The guards drop me, stunned. I take a single step forward to balance myself and clench my hands into rock-solid fists at my sides.

"I volunteer as tribute," I say one final time to make sure my message was clear. The square is so quiet you can hear a pin drop. As long as I've been living, District 12 has never had a volunteer. Maybe they haven't ever. It would explain the confusion on the stage as Effie bustles about, flipping pages in Mayor Undersee's rules handbook. But I already know how volunteering works. The rule is that once a tribute's name has been pulled from the ball, another eligible child of the same gender can come forward to take his or her place. In some districts, where winning the reaping is such a great honor that people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12, where the word "tribute" is pretty much synonymous with "death," volunteers are all but extinct.

"Well, that's just lovely!" says Effie Trinket. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um . . ." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. A pained expression is aimed at me. He doesn't know me well, but there's a faint recognition there. I am the girl who brings the strawberries. I am the girl his daughter might have spoken of on occasion. I am the girl who, five years ago, stood huddled with her mother and sister as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal to her father, vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that? "What's it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. She's wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

"Prim, let go," I say firmly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they play the recap of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!"

I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Gale has lifted Prim off the ground and she's thrashing in his arms. He ignores her and looks down at me. He fights to keep his voice steady. "Up you go, Catnip," he manages to get out. Then he carries Prim off to my mother, who is crying in the middle of a crowd of fellow Seam mothers. Could I be wrong in saying that Madge's mother, Mayor Undersee's wife, is the one with her arms around my morher's shoulders? I don't have time to make certain because now the Peacekeepers are pushing me forward. I brace myself for what's sure to come next and climb the steps to the stage.

"Well, well, well, it looks like you have District Twelve's very first volunteer!" says Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's probably just excited that she finally had a district with a little action going on in it. As I cross the stage to her, she holds out a cold, colorless hand and beckons me forward. "What's your name, dear?"

I gulp down what will probably be my last breath of District 12's air. "Katniss Everdeen," I say.

"Well, I bet my buttons that was your sister! Didn't want her to steal all the glory, did we? Well, let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one single person claps. Not even the ones holding the betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or they knew my father, or they have encountered Prim, who no one can help but love. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest from of dissent they can manage. Silence. This says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I never really thought of District 12 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Prim's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, and then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It's an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means goodbye to someone you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying. Fortunately for me, Haymitch decides now is a good time to come staggering across the stage to express his congratulations to me. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he hollers. An arm is tossed around my shoulder. The limb feels like it weighs a ton, and he's surprisingly strong if you take his daily alcohol consumption into consideration. "I like her! Lots of . . . spunk!" He removes his arm from me and stumbles to the front of the stage. "More than you!" He points directly into the lens of a camera. "More than you!"

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk that he might actually be taunting the Capitol? I suppose I'll never know because just as he's opening his mouth to go on, he plummets off the stage. The people in the crowd crane their necks to see him in his now-unconscious state.

He's deplorable, but I'm thankful that he has the cameramen preoccupied and focused away from me long enough for me to compose myself. I clasp my hands together behind my back and look out past the crowd. From here, I can see everything. I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. I can see the mountains he wanted to retreat to. For a moment, I yearn for something . . . the idea of us leaving the district together . . . escaping into the woods. . . . But I was right about not running off. Who else would have volunteered for Prim today?

I'm brought back to reality when several Peacekeepers lift Haymitch and drop him onto a medical stretcher. Two nurses wheel him away and take the eyes of the crowd with them. Effie Trinket is back before anyone can lose sight of the real purpose of today, her trilling voice ready to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" she warbles. "But much more excitement to come, I assure you!" She looks back at the mayor for permission to go on. He aims a stiff nod in her direction, and she turns back to her audience. "Now, for the boys!" She crosses the stage to the boys' reaping ball. I guess she's lost a good bit of patience now because she grabs the first slip she encounters and zips back to the podium. I don't even have time to wish for Gale's safety before she's reading the name, spoken distinctly into the microphone. "Peeta Mellark."

For a moment, the name swims around in my head. Peeta Mellark . . .

And then I see his stunned face in the crowd, looking at Effie Trinket as if he's convinced he heard her wrong. I knew I'd heard that name before.

Peeta Mellark.

 _Oh, no. Not him,_ I think. Because I do recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.

No, the odds are not in my favor today.

I watch him begin to make his way forward. The crowd isn't as gracious to him as they were to me. He has to push past a lot of them to get to the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blonde hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs the steps to the stage steadily and takes his place on the other side of Effie.

Why him? Why couldn't it have been anyone else? I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter, that I shouldn't care, but I'm interrupted by a scuffling in the crowd, some Peacekeepers trying to push someone back, a few confused audience members, and then a booming voice that is all too familiar to me. He isn't shouting, but his voice is just as powerful as if he was.

"Why don't you get your hands off me, huh? Move out of my way."

My sight closes in on Gale, shoving two Peacekeepers out of his way. The Peacekeepers seem just as tired as the rest of us, barely fighting back against him.

"My word, what's going on?" Effie Trinket says. Trying to get the cameras aimed back at her. But they're not moving from this latest turn of events. This reaping might turn out to be the most eventful reaping in District 12's history.

Gale has finally escaped the Peacekeepers and is bounding up the steps to the stage. And now he's pushing Peeta aside, Peeta stumbling over his surprised feet. "I volunteer."

"You . . . you what?" Effie says, stunned. But Gale doesn't need to repeat himself. "Are you of age?"

Gale nods curtly. "I'm eighteen."

"Er . . . well, as I said earlier, you're supposed to wait until I ask for volunteers to step forward," Effie Trinket stammers. "And then you're supposed to state your name. And-"

"Ms. Trinket, don't let's make this harder than it has to be," Mayor Undersee says tiredly. "Mr. Mellark, you may exit the stage."

I am so stunned that I barely address Peeta Mellark's torn look between Effie Trinket, myself, Mayor Undersee, and Gale. But Gale is on the ball, stepping right into his place as soon as Peeta is gone.

Effie Trinket still looks flustered from the drama of the day. "Um, what's your name?"

"Gale Hawthorne."

"Well, Gale, I can see why our female tribute inspired you," Effie Trinket flashes a smile at me. She waits several awkward seconds for Gale to respond, but he doesn't.

I gasp involuntarily as the weight of the situation sinks in. Gale has just volunteered to take Peeta Mellark's place in the Hunger Games. I wasn't happy with Peeta Mellark's name being chosen in the first place, but this is worse. Much, much worse. Now, Gale and I will be in an arena with twenty-two other kids, all of us forced to fight to the death. Of course, there are the small odds that one of us might actually make it, but that's the thing. Only one of us will return home. Only one of us will make it out of the arena alive. That's the catch with the Hunger Games. In order for one of us to win, the other will have to die.

A wrangled sob jolts up my throat. Fortunately, it catches before it can be released. In some distant world, I hear Effie Trinket's voice. "Well, there we have it! This year's tributes from District Twelve, Gale Hawthorne and Katniss Everdeen!"

By now, Gale has semi-circled behind Effie Trinket to reach me. His hands catch my forearms as I'm spinning around to face him. His words spill out quickly and heavily. "Katniss, Katniss, listen to me. I know you're upset, I know, I know, but you have to listen-"

"You told me you'd protect them. You promised me you'd keep them safe. Gale, we had a deal!" I cry out.

His eyes are wide and pleading, attacking mine with their intensity. "I know, I know, I'm sorry-"

Two Peacekeepers have come between us to pull us apart. Now they're tugging us inside the Justice Building, and before I know it, I'm alone in a room without Gale.

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 **A/N: This chapter was a lot shorter than last chapter, but the rest of the story's chapters should be a good length. Last chapter was too long in my opinion, so I hope to find a nice median between the two.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys liked it! By the way, I forgot to mention last chapter that I know of at least one other fanfic where Gale volunteers for Peeta and I'm sure there are lots of others besides that one, but The Hunger Games: Revised is my take on what would've happened had he volunteered. I'm not copying anyone else's storyline because honestly I've only read one other one with a similar plot, and while I liked it, I found the love triangle to be extremely unrealistic. So hopefully you guys will enjoy this.**

 **Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! Constructive criticism is always welcome, as well as theories and ideas about the rest of the story. I love to hear from my readers, so don't be shy! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything.**

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CHAPTER 3

The room I'm ushered into is by far the richest place I've ever seen. Thick, deep carpets, a dark red sofa and chairs made of velvet. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. I can't help running my fingers over the smooth, thick fabric when I sit on it. This small action helps calm me as I try to prepare for visiting hour.

After the reaping, the chosen victors are given what's called a visiting hour, although it lasts much less than that. Each tribute is allowed five visitors after the Reaping. Five minutes with your loved ones before leaving for your imminent slaughter in the Capitol. But you can't let things get to you. You can't get emotional. Because the moment you leave, you're swarmed by dozens of cameras, all of them dying to get your picture. The tributes that are strong from the beginning usually stay in the running much longer than those who don't. The ones who don't are the first people to be targeted once the Games begin. They're the weaklings. And I can't afford to be one of them.

My first visitor is my mother and Prim. They burst into the private sitting room that I've been ushered into. My sister's eyes are red and damp. A deep frown has etched itself onto her pretty face. My mother is pale-faced and shaky, and surprisingly alert. I'd expected she'd be zoned out by now, just as she did when my father died.

Prim runs forward to embrace me the moment her eyes lock with mine. "Katniss!" she cries out.

A guard in the doorway reminds me that I only have five minutes with my mother and Prim. Then he walks out and shuts the door behind him, leaving us on our own.

Prim climbs on my lap and throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. Several moments go by with nothing said. Then I start telling them all the things they can't forget when I'm gone. I tell them that I will no longer be here to do these things for them. They have to learn to fend for themselves now.

For instance, Prim is forbidden to take any tesserae. If they're careful, they can get by without it. Prim can sell milk and cheese from her goat, and my mother can make money off the small apothecary business she runs for the people in the Seam. Gale will get her the herbs she doesn't grow herself in our small back garden, but she must be very careful to describe them because he's not as familiar with them as I am. He'll also bring them meat - he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago - and will probably not ask for compensation, but they would be kind to thank him with some kind of trade.

Prim raises her head from my shoulder and looks in my eyes. There is fear in them. "Katniss," she whispers. "Gale won't be here to help us."

I suppose it didn't hit me at first, the weight of the situation I'm in. But now it comes crashing onto me at full force, as strong as if the walls around us caved on top of me. My best friend, the one who promised me he'd stay back and care for my family if my name was to be reaped and vice versa, is going in the arena with me by choice. He chose to go in with me, not even stopping to think of the consequences. Had I not been reaped and he had, he could've counted on me to watch out for his four remaining relatives. If he hadn't volunteered today, I would've had someone to trust with my small family. But now I have no one, and neither does he. I wonder if he realizes the extent of what he's done?

I realize how long it's been since I spoke. I can't afford to worry my sister anymore than she already is, so I say, "Someone will be there to help you. I promise. These people . . . they adore you, Prim. Some of them knew Dad. They won't leave you in the dark." It's a far cry from the truth, but it'll ease her mind a little.

She nods. My mother gives me an unsure glance, probably wondering if I really think that people will help them while I'm gone. I turn my eyes away from her and focus back on Prim, afraid of letting my mother know my real thoughts. But then I remember something and jerk my head back to her. My hand closes around her bony forearm and grips it tightly. "Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what's coming. "You can't leave again," I say.

Her eyes find the floor, ashamed. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what happened before."

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Prim on her own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment.

She yanks her arm free from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. "I was ill. I could've treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."

That part about her being ill might be true. I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness ever since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it's one we can't afford.

"Then take it. And take care of her!" I say.

Prim holds my face in her hands. "I'll be alright, Katniss. But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."

Her words are like a shot through my veins of the strongest doubt. I fight to compose myself again, to hide my lack of confidence. I can't win. Prim must know that. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who have been trained their whole lives for this moment. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there'll be people like me, too. People to weed out before any of the real fun begins.

"Maybe," I say quietly, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up on myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable.

"You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" Prim asks, her blue eyes shining with fresh tears.

"I'll try. Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know because of Prim, I'll have to.

The Peacekeeper is back and telling them it's time to go all too soon after that, and all I can remember is embracing them tightly and repeating, "I love you. I love you both. I love you so much," and them saying it back. Then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I go back to the velvet couch and bury my face in one of its pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

My next guest is unexpected. Madge walks straight over to me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there's an urgency about her tone that surprises me. "They let you wear one thing for your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" She holds out the gold pin that was on her white dress earlier. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, but now I see that it's a small bird in flight.

"You want me to wear your pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll put it on your dress, okay?" Madge doesn't wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to my dress. "Promise me you'll wear it into the arena, Katniss?" she asks. "Promise?"

"Yes," I say. Before she leaves, Madge gives me one more gift - a kiss on the cheek. Then she's gone and I'm left thinking that maybe Madge really has been my friend all along.

My final guest is Gale's mother, Hazelle. Hazelle is a comely, maternal woman. Gale resembles her only slightly - they have the same high cheekbones and pretty mouth. I suppose he takes more after his father, whom I never met. Gale's two younger brothers, Rory and Vick, look just like him. His little sister Posy takes after Hazelle and Hazelle only, though.

Hazelle hustles into the room past the Peacekeeper and the door. She opens her arms for me, closes them around me when I'm close enough. Her warm cheek presses against my cold ear. My clammy hands wrinkle in the back of her dress as I hug her tightly. Finally, she pulls back and looks at me. "Are you okay?" I nod. "No, honey, really, are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine," I tell her.

Her hands reach up to cup my face. My own clammy fingers touch her face as well. "Katniss, you know I'll look out for your sister. We'll have dinners together. Prim and Rory will be the leaders on the way to school instead of you and Gale. They'll learn to live independently. I won't let her suffer. And your mother . . . well, she won't be going through this alone." Something breaks behind Hazelle's forced calm. She chokes out a short sob but swallows it back down before anymore can escape.

"I'm sorry," I whisper while my brain screams for me not to let go, not to cry, just don't cry.

"For what?" Hazelle says. She sniffs and lets out a laugh-sob. Then her face becomes serious again. "I'm glad he volunteered, Katniss. You're going to need each other in there."

I'm confused. Why in the world would she be glad that Gale volunteered in Peeta's place? She must know that one of us isn't going to come back alive. She may not have accepted it yet, but she certainly knows it.

The Peacekeeper is back in the doorway now, motioning for Hazelle to leave. She looks over her shoulder at the Peacekeeper, then looks back at me. Her eyes are full of mixed emotions: worth, sympathy, sadness, injustice, pride. She plants a quick kiss on my cheek, the opposite cheek that Madge kissed. "Don't let it get to you, Katniss. You're so much more capable than you think."

And then she's gone and I'm left to wonder what she meant.

It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.

I've been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters with their insect-like cameras trained directly on my face. But I've had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that's airing my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost bored.

Across the lobby from me is Gale, whose expression is the inspiration behind my own. He seems angry, bored, hostile. As soon as we lay eyes on each other, I let loose and run across the lobby to him. He spots me as I'm about to reach him and opens his arms just in time to catch me in them. I bury my face in his chest and hug him tightly, not wanting to go any further. It crosses my mind that had we run away this morning like he suggested, maybe we wouldn't be here right now.

Gale leans down and whispers in my ear, "Let go, Catnip. Cameras."

I immediately drop my arms from him and take a step back. He's right. The Capitol media is obnoxious, nosy, and extremely observant. They're so clever with twisting appearances that they could turn an innocent photo of two friends hugging into a story about forbidden lovers, or a story about two star-crossed lovers. Neither of which Gale and I are, obviously.

He presses his hand into my lower back and guides me to the platform. Camera bulbs continue flashing, blinding us wherever we turn. We have to stand in the doorway of the train like this for a few minutes while the cameras gobble up our images, and then we're allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move almost at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.

According to my school books, the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known as Appalachia. They mined coal here even hundreds of years ago, long before my time. This is why our present-day miners have to dig so deep into the earth.

Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and arithmetic skills, most of our instruction is coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem, which is mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol. I know there must be more than what they're telling us. Maybe there's an actual account of what happened during the rebellion. But I don't spend much time thinking about it. Whatever the truth is, I don't see how it will help me get food on the table.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. Back home, we don't have hot water unless we boil it.

There are drawers upon drawers of fine clothes. Effie Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for supper in an hour. I take off my mother's blue dress, drape it neatly over the back of a chair, and take a hot shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer. After my shower, I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Madge's little gold pin. I pick it up and examine it, for the first time getting a good look at it. It looks as though someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its song tips. A thought zips through my head and I grin. I knew I recognized the bird. It's a mockingjay.

Mockingjays are funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common term or them was muttations, or mutts for short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds gathered information, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people a while to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

Only they didn't die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated with female mockingbirds, creating a whole new species that could replicate both bird whistles and human melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high pitched warble to a man's deep tones. And they could recreate sings. Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we went hunting, he'd whistle or sing complicated songs to them and, after a polite pause, they'd always sing back. Not everyone is treated with such respect. But whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life that it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone. Still, there's something comforting about the little bird, like having a piece of my father with me to protect me. I fasten the pin onto my shirt. The dark green fabric gives the pin a woodsy background, and I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying through the trees.

I still have a while until supper, so I wander into the living car. It's a plush room filled with fur rugs and shiny wood tables and leather armchairs. But it's none of this that draws my attention. Instead I find myself wandering over to one of the windows lining the side of the train, peeking out curiously. I think we're passing through District 7 now but I can't be sure. Like I said, Panem isn't too big on unauthorized visits to districts outside of your own.

I don't even hear him come in, but I know he's there. Years of hunting with him in the woods have taught me to listen for his breathing, not his footsteps. If someone is listening for that, they'll never find him; he's silent as a mouse and his every step is light and careful.

He comes to stand beside me, glances quickly at my face, then stares out the same window as me. A few minutes pass before he says anything. Even then, "Hey," is all that comes.

"Hey," I say back. Quiet. Then comes his apology. I raise my hand to hush him. Normally I would want the apology. This afternoon, I don't want to even hear the word reaping. But all fears must be faced. "Did Madge come to see you?" I ask.

Gale nods. "Yeah. Your mother and Prim, too. Prim was . . . inconsolable. I was surprised she came."

"My mother said they would. I didn't think Prim would go through with it. She was too . . ." I trail off and bite the inside of my mouth.

"Yeah," Gale says quietly. We sit in silence for a minute or two. Then he says, "The baker and his son . . . did they visit you?"

I glance at him, surprised by this question. Even with the train's tinted windows, the sunlight streaming in through them blinds me. I find myself squinting up at him in the golden afternoon light. "No," I say. "You?"

"Yeah," Gale says. He searches my eyes for a moment, then sighs. "I can tell you want to say it, so just go ahead."

"Why did you volunteer for him? You promised me if anything ever happened, if one of us ever got chosen, we'd look out for each other. We'd keep them safe. And now no one's there to protect them! You put both of our families in danger! And for what? So one of us can die and not make it back?"

It's as if my mind was shielding me from the reality of our situation, but I have finally found the chink in the armor and there's no avoiding the truth now. Only one of us can live past this trip.

Gale rushes to speak before I begin again. "They're going to be okay. Alright? The baker, he said he'd take care of your family. And the boy that's your age, he said he'd make sure Prim was okay. Even said he'd take her to school and bring her lunch if she needs."

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Is Gale telling me the truth? "Why would he do that? I don't owe him anything," I say.

I have a sudden flash of that day in the rain, that soggy loaf of bread hitting the wet pavement. If anything, I'm the one who owes him, not the reverse. Why did he make such a huge promise? Peeta Mellark and I are not friends, or even neighbors. We've never spoken to each other. Our only real interaction happened years ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he's forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will.

It happened during the darkest time in my life. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. _Where are you?_ I would cry out in my mind. _Where have you gone?_ Of course, there was never any answer.

As compensation for his death, my family received a small amount of money from the district. It was just enough to cover one month of grieving. During that time, my mother was expected to find herself a job to support herself and Prim and I after the money ran out. But she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her.

At first, I tried to find her somewhere in the hole she'd buried herself in. But after a while, I gave up. Our mother was a lost cause, alone in her own little world where it was okay to leave your children parentless, without so much as a chunk of stale bread to fill their stomachs before school in the mornings. At eleven years old, with Prim only seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no other option. That month of money wasn't too difficult. I went to the market to buy our food. At home, I cooked it as best I could. I tried to keep Prim and myself looking somewhat presentable. If someone had suspected that my mother was neglecting us, the district would take us away from her and put us in the community home, where the orphaned and abused children lived. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair every day before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror every day because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But it wasn't long before the money ran out. We were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. The only way I could make it through each day was to keep reminding myself that if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. But that was weeks away. We could well be dead by then.

As I said before, starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? The elderly men and women who are just too old to work. Children from families with too many mouths to feed. Injured miners who are too weak or damaged to return underground. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the official cause of death. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy torrents. I'd been in town since early that morning, trying to trade some of Prim's threadbare old baby clothes in the public market. There were no takers there. Although I'd been to the Hob with my father on several occasions, I was too timid to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had long since soaked through my father's leather hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone, shivering uncontrollably. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a puddle of mud. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.

Going home wasn't an option. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I'd scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my hands empty of any hope.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their business, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of what would be garden beds, but they hadn't yet been planted for the spring. I passed a few goats in a pen, one wet dog tied to a tree, hunched defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's. Something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. As I lifted the metal lid at the butcher's hopefully, I remembered that it was trash day and the bins would've just been emptied. But I opened it anyway, peered inside in hopes that maybe garbage pickup had been delayed by the rain. It hadn't.

When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back of the shop, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. For a reason I still don't know, I felt a need to check the baker's trash. My last hope. I lifted the lid to the trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was hollering at me. I spun around, heart beating fast, and found the baker's wife standing in the back doorway, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. He was in my year at school - I'd seen him before - but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling. It didn't occur to me until much later that he must have been watching me as I made my way behind their family's pig pen and leaned against the far side of an apple tree, defeated. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the trunk of the tree to its roots. It was too much to bear, going back home now. I was too sick and weak and tired. So, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home. Go ahead and let them, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a sudden clatter in the bakery and the woman started screaming again, followed by the sound of a blow. I vaguely wondered what was going on. Then a pair of feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, _It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick_. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. He carried two large loaves of bread in his arms. The loaves must've fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

From the doorway, his mother shouted, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! I mean, why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" I remember wondering what kind of a person the woman must be to yell at her son like that.

The boy began to tear off chunks of the burnt crust and toss them into the pig's trough. I heard the bakery bell ring and his mother disappeared to help her new customer.

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him the whole time. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine them trying. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have, because there they were at my feet. So, before anyone could witness what had happened, I shoved the loaves up my shirt, wrapped my jacket tightly around me, and started home. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk. But our parents had taught us manners and even though my hunger gnawed holes through the lining of my stomach, we needed to have a civilized meal. So I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, poured warm tea, and scraped off the black stuff. Then I sliced the bread. In that meal alone we ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

After supper, I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless slumber. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing good and well that it would result in being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this new revelation. Surely it was just an accident. What reason did he have to give those loaves to me? He didn't know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I just couldn't seem to explain his actions.

Before heading to school, Prim and I ate a few slices of bread for breakfast. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall. His cheek was swollen and he had a black eye. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head as I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive.

To this very day, I haven't been able to shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. More than once, I've caught his eyes trained on me in the hallways at school, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I'd thanked him, I'd feel less conflicted now. I thought about doing so a few times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Now I guess it never will, because I'm going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death, and I'll probably never see him again.

Gale just shakes his head now. "I don't know," he says. Something beneath the surface tells me that Gale has more he could've said on the subject, but I don't push him.

I stare out the window and watch the districts fly past us. "For your sake, let's hope he keeps that promise."

* * *

 **A/N: I apologize for the late update! I've been super busy but I'm hoping to get back on a roll before finals week so I don't have to worry about writing any that week and can just post.**

 **Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of this chapter! I love to hear your questions, thoughts, and theories. I want to thank the people who have reviewed so far for motivating me to continue! I promise you won't regret reading this :)**


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